Eighty Four

Coming by train last night, i swore faithfully to Jesus, no more of that all right, a woman from Naples, rocks me easy, says everything's OK, it's a perfect delight, every part she pleases, in her eyes i'm blind, fresh linen and fables, the soul of lost seasons, my wallet on the table, she talks of a writer, called Lisa Passolini, and kisses me quietly, by the garden stable, of Saint Peter's, I see the poor unable, done beg at this site, see what you don't see, many others soar like kites, folded, boxed, serene,